Styx and Stones
by Juxtaposie
Summary: Dorothy unwittingly aids an ancient entity in its search for immortality, in exchange for the thing she craves most: humanity. UPDATED OCTOBER 10th!
1. Chapter One

**Styx and Stones: Chapter One**

*****

__

"Styx, the river daughter of Oceanus, and the oldest of her three thousand children, was said to wind nine times around the underworld, forever blocking the shades, the spirits of the deceased, from the living world."

*****

When Roger had handed her a few bills from his pocket and said, "Go down to that café and pick up something for lunch, would you?" she was quite certain he had not meant "Spend this on a crummy fortune teller." Of course, Dorothy really did not care what Roger had meant, because he had been snapping at her all morning. 

His latest job - a search for an escaped, highly dangerous female terrorist- was driving him up the wall. Every lead he could find just fizzled out a little farther up the trail of nearly non-existent evidence. Roger had been on the job for nearly a week, and had found nothing. He had come barreling out of his room that morning, thrown the newspaper at her - she had ducked- and then stomped to the breakfast table like a spoiled child.

He had practically shoved her out of the car after handing her the money, and had sped off while shouting back that he would come to collect her, and his lunch, in half an hour. Well, it was his own fault that he had dropped her off on block that was having a carnival that weekend.

As she strolled through the sparse crowd of fairgoers, booths and vendors, a tacky neon sign hanging on a patched purple tent caught her eye. She could not have said what it was that drew her attention, but there was something almost familiar about that sign, as if she had seen it before.

"FORTUNE TELLING," it read, in large red, flashing letters, and under that "palms read, spells cast, and wishes granted," all in blue. Painted into an empty spot was a dollar symbol connected with the number five. Well, that was ridiculous, Dorothy thought. Still, something about it intrigued her. 

So she found herself drawing closer to the small cloth construction, pulling the curtain back, and stepping into a room that could not possibly have been concealed in so tiny a tent. There was an old woman sitting in a chair on one side of a small table. A green scarf covered her grey hair, and large gold hoops dangled from her drooping lobes. Small, squinting eyes were covered by thick glasses that magnified the wrinkles at their corners. A woven shawl the brightest, most offensive shade of pink Dorothy had ever seen was set about the old woman's shoulders. Strings of beads, leather pouches on cords, and woven chains of gold and silver hung around her neck. Wooden bracelets clattered on her wrist as she gestured for Dorothy to take a seat in the only other chair in the room. Dorothy did so, saying nothing to the woman.

"First thing's first," the woman said in a low, scratchy voice, and held out her hand to Dorothy. Dorothy placed a ten-dollar bill in the open palm.

"I can't make change," the woman continued. "Haven't had a customer all damn day."

"Keep it," Dorothy answered. "It won't be missed."

"Alright," the woman said a little too quickly, and pocketed the money. "Tell you what, though. I'll grant you a wish for free before I tell your fortune, eh?"

"If you wish," Dorothy replied, already wondering how she could explain this to Roger in the way that would anger him the most.

The old woman removed her glasses, setting them down on the table, and looked Dorothy straight in the eye. "My name's Melba," she said, glancing at Dorothy with ayes that were the brightest, purest shade of blue the android had ever seen. "And you, young lady?"

"Dorothy," she supplied, her voice little more than a whisper. Something about this place, this woman, this situation was entirely too familiar, and yet Dorothy knew for certain that she had never been there before. This feeling made her uneasy.

"What a pretty name," Melba said, taking off one of her necklaces. It was a small leather pouch on a worn cord. She handed this to Dorothy, and instructed her to put it on. Dorothy found this request quite odd, but did as the woman bade out of curiosity.

Then something in Melba's demeanor changed. The temperature in the tent began to drop, and Melba's body temperature was dropping with it. The old woman smiled grimly. Her wrinkled, bony hands, full of liver spots and spider veins, reached over the table to grab Dorothy's own.

"Tell me what you want, child," Melba said. "Name it, anything, and you shall have it."

Dorothy was frozen: every joint stuck, every gear frozen. Even if she could have moved, she doubted she would have wanted to. Those cold, clear blue eyes were boring into her center, into her very soul. _Androids don't have souls…_

"Name it, girl!" Melba cried, shaking her a little. "Name it and be done!"

An immense, cold silence stretched between them, made all the more cold by the icy blue of Melba's eyes. The carnival seemed to have disappeared. No happy, raucous music blared in the background, no children laughed. The silence stretched and grew until Dorothy thought that she had gone deaf. A tingling sensation was creeping up her arms from where Melba's fingers gripped her wrists. She suddenly felt trapped, cornered, and so she said the first, the most honest and ridiculous thing that came to her. "I want to be human."

Immediately Melba released her wrists. Falling back in her chair, the old woman let out a loud, shrill, cackling laugh. "Human!" she exclaimed. "Isn't that what we all want…"

Dorothy had just about had enough of this oddity, and stood up from her chair.

"Don't get upset," Melba quipped, gesturing for Dorothy to sit down again. Dorothy declined.

"Fine, fine, have it your way," Melba grumbled. Then sitting up straighter in her chair, she said "Now to discuss payment."

"I have already given you more than enough money," Dorothy said, growing annoyed.

"Money, yes, but that was for the wish," Melba said quietly. "I have given you a piece of myself. I must have something from you in return. What would you give me?"

Dorothy now believed the woman to be totally insane.

"Your eyes, perhaps?" Melba pondered aloud. "Mine are failing with old age… Or your strength? I would love to walk tall again. I would walk for miles and miles…"

Dorothy began to back to the tent flap, the feeling of unease growing exponentially with every second she spent in sight of those unfeeling eyes.

"Your voice!" Melba exclaimed, standing shakily.

Dorothy stopped, looked Melba straight in the eye, and said the worst possible thing she could have: "Take it, if you can. I have no real use for it."

Melba smiled, nodded in a knowing way, and said, "You'll have a week to live out your wish,"

"You did not inform me of-" Dorothy began.

Melba cut her off, saying, "Listen, girl! This is the important part!"

Dorothy had then decided that she was finished with this lunatic, and turning, she pushed back the tent flap and stepped out into the imitation sunlight of the dome's interior.

As she was walking back toward the café, Melba called after her "Inform the young man you live with of the deal you made. He's really going to miss you sweet voice!"

Dorothy whirled around to glare at the old woman, but Melba had already gone back into the tent. Running back to the patched, purple monster of a thing, Dorothy threw the flap back, but Melba was not there. The room looked smaller now, and the furniture was yellowing, and rickety. One chair had fallen apart where it stood.

Dorothy frowned. 

This wasn't possible.

But how would she explain it to Roger?

Roger!

Looking at her watch, Dorothy almost cried out in disbelief. It had been nearly an hour since Roger had dropped her off. 

Running back to the café, Dorothy was slightly relieved to see that Roger had waited for her. He was standing by his car, looking extremely ticked off.

"And where have you been?" he said grumpily, frowning at her mildly disheveled appearance. "What happened to my money? Are you alright?"

"I do not wish to talk about it," Dorothy said as she climbed into the car. She smoothed the pleats out of her dress, and noticed a run in her stockings as Roger pulled out into the road.

"I have a few more leads to check on today," he said, "and I think I might have-"

"Could you return me home?" Dorothy interrupted, staring straight ahead.

Roger glanced at her. "Some thing wrong?" he asked.

"I am not sure," Dorothy answered. "I thin I may be malfunctioning. I do not wish to be out of the house, if something should go wrong."

"Fair enough," Roger said, and signaled to get into the left lane.

****

*****

Norman could not find anything wrong, and so Dorothy went around cleaning the house for the rest of the day: a meticulous job and one that didn't really need doing, but Dorothy still felt uneasy, and sitting prone only magnified the feeling. 

It wasn't until she was undressing for bed that night that Dorothy realized she still had the leather pouch strung around her neck. She noticed for the first time that the pouch contained a stone, or something of that size, shape and weight. Loosening the ties, Dorothy found that it was indeed a stone. The thing was small, no bigger than a thumbprint, white as snow, and had an image of a woman with the tail of a fish carved into it and inked on in black.

It was a very well done picture, so Dorothy put the stone on her bedside table where she could admire it. Pulling her nightdress over her head, she climbed into bed, turned off the lights, and shut down for the night.

****

End Chapter the First.


	2. Chapter Two

**Styx and Stones: Chapter**

-----

The clock in the hall chimed ten times, and Dorothy rolled over in bed, then sat up. The shades were open, as always, and outside the morning sky was the color of wet cement. It was going to rain later. Dorothy could hear the rumbling roll of distant thunder.

She made a mental note to have Norman recheck her systems: her vision was slightly fuzzy and dark, though the feeling was slowly clearing, her joints were stiff, and she felt disoriented.

Was this how humans felt in the morning?

Shaking her head slightly, Dorothy pushed that thought away, kicking off the covers as she turned her mind toward the day ahead. Thinking idly about how much it would irk Roger if she wore anything but black, she swung her legs over the side of the bed-

-only to fall forward as her legs collapsed beneath her. The cold floor nipped at her bare knees, raising goosebumps along her arms and legs. Her palms smarted from breaking the fall.

Something was terribly, horribly, wonderfully wrong.

Grabbing the edge of the dresser, Dorothy pulled herself up slowly, her knees shaking. Tiny fireworks of bright colors burst in her vision, and she stood still until they cleared. A deep, unfamiliar ache in her chest began to burn its way into her thoughts, and she realized that not only was she breathing, she was gulping down air in short, deep breaths.

Her thumb brushed the cool, hard stone that lunatic woman had given her, and she pocketed it without a thought.

Then, like a toddler on wobbling legs, she left her room, still clad in the white nightdress. A robe was the farthest thing from her mind.

She had to find Roger and Norman.

-----

The mere fact that Roger had woken on his own, at 9:47 (four quarters of an hour after Dorothy usually woke him with her piano playing) was more than enough to set the negotiator in a pleasant mood, for all of about 2 minutes. Dorothy had never been late without reason: reason usually being that she was not in the house because some lunatic, like that Beck fellow, had taken it upon himself to sacrifice her for the greater good (i.e. his own pocketbook and power).

After this realization Roger was irritated, foul-tempered, and though it pained him to admit it, worried.

She's more than able to take care of herself, he reasoned. _Norman would have woken me if something had happened… unless he's gone too…_

Shut up, brain, Roger thought, shaking his head as he made his way to the dining room.

Norman was whistling in the kitchen, and breakfast sat on the table, covered by a tray to keep it warm. Though the eggs, ham, and biscuits (and not to mention the coffee) smelled divine, Roger doubted that he would be able to eat until he found out what had happened to Dorothy.

"Norman," he asked, entering the kitchen to see the old butler scrubbing a skillet in the sink. "Have you seen Dorothy this morning?"

Reaching for a dishtowel to dry the skillet, Norman answered, "I don't believe she's awake yet, sir."

Roger's eyebrows shot up into his hairline at this statement. "Androids don't sleep," he reminded Norman, more out of habit than anything else.

Norman smiled (smirked really) at this, and said, "Whatever the case, she hasn't come out of her room since retiring last night."

"Hn," was Roger's nondescript reply as he absently scratched his chin.

"Do you think she's all right?" he asked suddenly.

Smiling (smirking) again, Norman said, "I'm sure she's just fine, Master Roger. Why don't you go check on her, though, just to be sure."

Throwing an unamused, I-know-what-you're-trying-to-do-and-it-won't-work look over his shoulder, Roger stalked off back toward Dorothy's room.

The dull thud of bare feet on wood floors registered in Roger's brain moments before the living room door flew open, missing him by mere inches. This was followed by a flash of red hair and white nightgown, a weight on his chest, and the feeling of falling backwards. A loud crack (his own head hitting the floor, he would realize a split second later) rang in his ears, through his entire skull, almost drowning out the panicked, ragged breathing emanating from the body now lying across his own.

"Dorothy?" he questioned, lying still as the stars cleared from his vision.

She did not answer, but rolled off of him, and pushed herself up on shaking knees. Roger climbed unsteadily to his feet and watched in growing alarm as Dorothy stood and stumbled back to lean against the doorframe. Her bowed head, and the lack of the black band that forever adorned it, sent a wave a terror rolling down his spine. It took a firm, controlling mental shove to keep the fear at bay.

She looked up at him, her eyes dark and expressive: not the eyes of an android. Her cheeks, usually pale and cold, were now pink and lively, and in the cold of the dining room he could feel the heat radiating from her small form. Her body heaved in time with the staccato rhythm of her breath, and her legs shook uncontrollably beneath her.

The doorframe appeared to be the only thing keeping Dorothy off the floor, and the chivalrous, slightly chauvinistic gentleman in Roger bade him step forward and pull her off her feet (Roger had always described this motion as "pull" rather than "sweep" because Dorothy weighed more than he did, but within seconds of taking her in his arms Roger's mind would change the motion back to a "sweep" because she was light as a feather).

She looked impossibly young and delicate, cradled against him in such fashion. One of her hands was fisted in the cloth of her nightgown, and the other had found a secure hold on the front of his robe. She was still shaking, her face pressed to his shoulder, as if she could block out whatever it was that had happened after she had gone to bed last night.

"Master Roger?" Norman called from the other end of the dining room, his voice full of concern. "I thought I heard someone fall-"

"Something's wrong with Dorothy," Roger cut him off, turning, Dorothy in arms, to face the older man. "Her headband's gone."

Norman, ready for anything, did not even bat an eyelash.

"Take her into the living room and set her on the couch," he said, and followed Roger into the living room.

-----

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

Don't stop breathing.

Draw the air in, let it out…

Is that running water?

No, it's the blood rushing in your ears.

Oh god, oh godohgodohgod…

In and out.

In and out…

-----

Prying Dorothy off the front his robe had been a difficult task. She had clung to him like a petulant child, refusing to let go, and when he finally managed to pull her fingers loose from the fold of his robe she just latched onto his hand instead. Her grip was weak, warm.

Norman waited patiently as Roger tried in vain to prize himself loose of Dorothy, but she refused to let go. Finally the negotiator just gave up and sat down on the couch, pulling her down beside him.

"Now, let's have a look at you, shall we?" Norman said gently, kneeling before Dorothy. She did not look at him, but stared at Roger's hand, which was clasped tightly in her own.

Roger, for his part, was doing his best not to look at anyone in the room.

"Look at me, Dorothy," Norman prompted, and she flinched, but complied.

If Norman was surprised by the change in her gaze, he showed no physical sign.

He placed a hand on her cheek, and feeling the heat there moved his hand to her forehead. _Warm…_

With gentle hands he tilted her head forward, and combed through the soft, red locks on her crown. Finding no trace that there had ever even been a data port there was startling to say the least, but it gave him an idea that hadn't occurred to him.

Tilting her head back, he placed the first two fingers of his right hand at the juncture of her neck and chin.

And there, beating beneath his fingers, erratic and quick, but unmistakable, was a pulse.

-----

As soon as Norman had pulled his hand away from her neck, Dorothy had snatched her own hand from Roger's and mimicked Norman's motion.

When she felt the blood beating through her veins she very nearly passed out.

Instead she bowed her head and took a few steadying breaths. She vaguely remembered hearing somewhere that this was good for humans who were having a panic attack, and hoped that it was true.

"Did anything happen after you went to bed?" Norman asked softly when Dorothy seemed steadied.

Dorothy looked up at him, gathered her thoughts, and answered.

Or tried to, anyway. All that came out was a small cough.

She tried again. And again.

Roger's eyebrows rose with each small, hacking cough she emitted.

When Dorothy realized that her voice was not going to work, she began to gesture frantically in a manic attempt to convey what had happened to her at the carnival. She stilled when she accidentally struck Roger in the nose with the back of her hand, and folded her arms about herself as she tried to think of a gesture they could understand.

The next obvious form of communication was writing, and the motion was an easy one.

Using her left hand as the imaginary sheet of paper, she mimed writing, looking first to Roger, then to Norman.

Norman smiled, and nodded.

"I'll get you some paper and a pen, Miss Dorothy," he said, standing. "And a glass of water as well, I think."

Roger, who had been unusually silent the past few minutes, chose this moment to speak.

"Do you go looking for trouble when I leave you alone?" he asked, frowning at her.

Dorothy glanced at him angrily, but chose not to dignify his question with any more response.

"Really," he continued derisively. "I thought I had problems getting caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Dorothy wished she could point out that Roger made it his business to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but Fate kept her silent.

Before he could make another snide comment, Norman returned with a glass of water, a few sheets of lined paper, and a pen. Dorothy took the water glass and drank down half of its contents, wondering idly why anyone would drink the stuff when it tasted so bland. She then shoved it toward Roger, who had to take it from her to avoid having it spilled all over himself. Norman handed her the paper and pen, and began to write a very simple description of what had transpired in the time that she had been away from Roger.

After writing the first two words she looked around for a hard, flat surface, and ended up scooting farther down the couch to make use of the end table.

Almost fifteen minutes later, when Dorothy felt her description was sufficiently detailed, she capped the pen, and handed the papers to Norman.

She watched the old butler's brow furrow as he read farther into her writing. Deciding she didn't like the look on his face one bit, she turned to Roger, who was still frowning at her. She took her glass of water back from him, and took another drink.

Her right hand, which was resting in her lap (it was odd how tired a limb could be after such a small exercise), brushed against the stone in her pocket, and Dorothy pulled it out to examine it once again.

For the third time that day Dorothy nearly passed out; the image on the stone had inverted itself. The mermaid, which had stood out in dark lines on a light stone, was now light as snow, and the stone had turned black as tar.

The sound of glass shattering reached Dorothy's ears, and an unfamiliar, unpleasant sensation (she automatically assumed it was pain) shot up her arm from her hand. The feeling of cold water splashing over her stomach and lap was secondary to that of something warm and sticky running down her arm.

Her eyes moved from the stone in her right hand, to the shards of glass in her left, to the brilliant red that was creeping down her arm, dripping onto her immaculate white nightdress.

This time Dorothy did pass out.

-----

Exactly five hours and thirty two minutes later, a little over seven miles south, and a complete world away, Brigit McFearson, aged six years and three months, would wake up from her afternoon nap to discover, to her horror and fright, that her eyesight had fled.

And though she could not see it, her pretty little stone, emblazoned with a proud hawk, had changed its colors, just as Dorothy's had.

**End Chapter the Second**

-----

**Author's Notes:** I feel like I should say something before I continue. To be frank, I do NOT believe in OOC in extreme situations like those I've written about above. Everyone changes, especially when a tragedy is involved, and believe you me, though this will probably have a happy ending, there are going to be some extremely tragic moments. Expect some changes in the major characters.

Secondly… DAMN! Did I put this off or what?! I'm so bad….and keeps deleting my asterisks!

THANKS SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED, and for those of you who pointed out the Little Mermaidness of this (you know who you are!), I was actually watching that movie and Hercules when I got the idea for this. No one laugh at me, Disney rocks!

Please be patient with me! I love all my stories dearly, and refuse to work on them when I don't want to, for fear of turning them to shit.

Keep up with the kind reviews, folks! They really help my muse (or lack thereof).

Also, it's not very hard to shatter a glass with your bear hand, especially if you've just gotten a huge shock…


	3. Chapter Three

****

Styx and Stones: Chapter Three

* * *

Brigit huddled against the headboard of her bead, clutching her stuffed aardvark and wailing as if Death was coming for her. For all the poor child knew, he was.

Darkness, everywhere she turned her head.

Mama couldn't help. Mama didn't know what was going on.

Mrs. McFearson, religious and superstitious to a fault, thought the devil was coming for her family.

So the very first thing she did upon hearing her daughter's story was rush out the front door of her tiny house, across the street, to the tiny church standing on the corner of the opposite block.

She didn't notice the car careening toward her until she was in the middle of the street.

The car swerved and smashed into Mrs. McFearson's own car, parked on the curb. Both cars burst into flames.

People spilled out of their houses, women with their dishwashing aprons on, and small children home from school, still in their uniforms.

Grabbing the arm of the clergyman who had come down the church's steps to witness the scene, Mrs. McFearson pulled him back into her house, caring not a whit for the cars now flaming in her driveway. She found Brigit just as she had left her. Scooping up the wailing child, trying to calm her with soft, rushed words of comfort, Mrs. McFearson brought Brigit out into the living room. The priest was using her phone to call the fire department.

Brigit continued to cry, wrapping her arms around her mother's neck in an iron-tight grip of fear.

* * *

Dorothy sat on the passenger side of the Griffon, much as she had always done, only this time she couldn't stop thinking about how the tag at the back of her neck was itching terribly. She made a mental note to cut it out of the dress as soon as was physically possible. Her shoes were pinching a bit, and her nose wouldn't stop itching.

She sneezed, and spent a few moments thinking about what an odd feeling it was. 

Roger smiled his mysterious little smile and handed her his handkerchief.

She looked at it for a moment, the proceeded to dab lightly at her nose, turning away from Roger as she did so.

He chuckled at this and said, "Never new you'd be so shy."

She threw the handkerchief at him.

"Agh, that's disgusting! And hasn't anyone ever told you not to throw things at the driver?"

The faintest hint of a smile slipped through Dorothy's pseudo-serious façade as she fiddled absently with the large black buttons on her coat. Norman had made sure she put it on when she and Roger had ventured out, for the day had turned cold and dark whilst she was in her shock-induced slumber.

It was the thunder that had awakened her: a deep, slow rumble just over the horizon. There had been voices, talking above her in muted tones.

The lights in the living room had slammed into her eyes and bounced around in her skull. Roger was poised above her, bathing her face with a cool washcloth. His dark eyes swallowed her up, and for a moment she thought she had fainted again. A stinging pain in her hand pulled her back to reality, and she looked down at her blood-soaked arm to see Norman stitching up a jagged gash in her left palm. There was blood on the sofa, blood on her nightdress, blood on Norman's hands and shirt.

Dorothy passed out again.

She awoke finally when Roger was moving her back to her bed. He laid her down on the cool sheets and pulled the covers up around her. Norman helped to clean the blood off her arm, and Roger sat with her while she ate breakfast. It had been oatmeal with brown sugar and orange juice, which Norman brought her in bed. Dorothy had enjoyed the orange juice, but thought the oatmeal was a bit bland.

After discussing her like she wasn't there, Norman and Roger decided the best course of action would be to investigate this woman Dorothy had been to see. A short argument later -which really only involved Roger, because Dorothy could do no more than glare at him- and she had convinced Roger that her opinion on this matter outweighed his own. They had left her to dress, which she had done in a very slow and meticulous manner, marveling at the feel of the wool in dress, the silk in her stockings, and the leather of her shoes. She had to have Norman fasten her shoes because she couldn't negotiate them on her own with her injured hand.

The car lurched to a halt, breaking Dorothy out of her momentary lapse into memory. She and Roger exited the car, and found themselves standing at the sight of the now-closed carnival. The gates were chained and locked, and there didn't appear to be anyone within.

Roger swore.

Dorothy looked at him sharply, then began walking toward the gate, confident that a way in was readily available if it could only be found. Roger followed, pulling his keys out of his pocket so he could pick the lock.

"This is trespassing," Roger said almost amiably as he removed the lock and chain. The gate made a terrible scraping sound as he pulled it partially open and ushered her inside. Dorothy frowned because she knew he was only being cheeky, with his too-bright smile and his sweeping gesture. So, instead of going ahead of him she let him stand like that for a few moments. He finally huffed, straightened, and muttered something under his breath.

She raised an eyebrow at him, and he pushed her in front of him in a manner that, while gentle, bespoke of his annoyance.

The grounds were silent, still. Nothing moved except the two of them. Dorothy made sure to walk slowly, so Roger could stay close as she led the way. This place made her nervous, as if thousands of creepy, crawly things were milling around under her skin. There was electricity in the air, and it smelled like rain, though Dorothy was not yet able to comprehend this with her limited senses. Things were too new, too brilliant. Their light blinded her to their subtleties.

But Roger knew, and mentally made a note to get this over with and get back to the car as quick as possible.

Dorothy stopped suddenly in trepidation as the bulky, coarse construct of purple fabric loomed over her. Roger stumbled into her, and she stumbled forward. He caught her by the shoulders before she could fall. She looked back over her shoulder at him, shooting him a slightly teasing glance: one eyebrow raised, smile quirking the corners of her mouth, as if to say, "My, whatever would people think if they saw us on the street like this!"

Roger chose to ignore the look, because of the mixed feelings it elicited in him. Instead he stepped around Dorothy, pulled back the tent flap, and entered. Less than five seconds later, he exited.

"There's nothing in there!" he said, startling Dorothy. She flinched as his voice tore through the shroud of silence encompassing the carnival grounds, and then pushed past him into the tent.

He was right. There was not a thing there, except for a few broken shards of wood: what had once been the table and chairs she had sat in no more than 24 hours ago.

Dorothy scowled. This was supposed to be easy. It had to be easy. She could barely cope with her newly gifted mortality, and now that batty old fool expected them to chase her across town?

What if it wasn't across town?

What if it wasn't even in Paradigm?

Dorothy took the white-on-black stone out of her pocket and threw it at the ground in frustration.

Roger did his best not to chuckle at the rather juvenile display he had just witnessed. "What are you, thirteen?" he jibed in good humor.

Dorothy just glared at him and left the tent.

Roger sighed and shook his head, then bent to retrieve the cast-off stone. The damned thing shocked his fingers when he picked it up, and he was tempted to leave it.

"Well, I've got a few leads I can check," Roger said as he exited the tent, still looking at the stone in his hand. It was drizzling now. "We can…" Roger trailed off, as Dorothy was not really paying him any attention.

She was looking up at the sky, blinking furiously as the rain fell into her eyes.

"You've been out in the rain before," Roger said, frowning in a perplexed manner.

Dorothy just glanced at him as if to say _I couldn't feel it then_,and tilted her face upward again. Her eyes were the same color as the dark grey sky.

Grabbing Dorothy's forearm, Roger pulled her toward the car.

* * *

"Wait at the bar," Roger told her in a tone that brooked no arguments. He laid a few bills down on the counter and asked the bartender to "get the young lady a soda."

"Don't see you around much, Red," an elderly gentlemen in an old dress coat rasped quietly from his stool at the bar. "Looks like a helluva injury, there." He gestured to her hand with his drink. "Get your hand stuck in a food processor?"

Dorothy smiled shyly and shook her head. She nearly choked on the drink the bartender set in front of her, but it was quite good once she managed to get around the carbonation. She removed her coat in the warmth of the bar, settling it over her lap.

"Don't talk much?" the old man asked, his dark eyes crinkling at their corners as he smiled.

Dorothy shook her head again.

"Oh, that's all right," he said, taking a sip of his own drink, "I'm not much one for idle chatter anyways. It's a waste of good air, if you ask me.

" 'Sides," he added, leaning forward as if he had a secret. "I haven't heard a thing since I was thirteen."

Dorothy cocked her head to the side, eyebrows drawn down as she frowned.

"Don't frown so, miss. Lip readin' ain't that hard," the man said. "I done alright, and a smile like that oughta be out in the open where everyone can enjoy it."

Dorothy blushed, but smiled anyways.

"Who was that grumpy young man you walked in with?"

Dorothy scowled.

The old man chuckled. The chuckle turned into a phlegmy cough, and he pulled out a kerchief and covered his mouth. An oddly melancholic sense of loss seeped into the back of Dorothy's mind. Mr. Wayneright had been like that, late in his life, and suddenly Dorothy missed him terribly. He was the only thing close to family she had ever had.

She glanced at Roger, sitting in the corner with the man in the funny little hat. They were conversing surreptitiously in soft voices.

"He seems like a nice boy, but you give him hell if he treats you wrong, Red."

Dorothy smiled at the old man again, and took another sip of her soda.

Roger collected her a few minutes later, looking even more disgruntled than he had all day.

"No one knows a damn thing," he muttered, taking her coat and helping her into it. "You'd think he'd be able to dig something up, with the kind of money I pay him…"

"Can I help you?" he asked then, turning to the old man, who was smiling at Dorothy.

She was smiling back.

"You just take care of Red, and I'll be fine," the man said, lifting his almost-empty glass and swigging it down.

Roger looked more disgruntled than he had a few minutes ago, but before he could retort Dorothy had grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the bar.

The rain had abated, and the sun shone weakly through the thick clouds.

"I think I might have found something," Roger said, opening the car door for her. "The carnival's supposed to be open again this evening. I figure we can go a quick dinner, run a few errands for Norman, and…"

He trailed off with a rather un-Rogerlike "Hn…" and cocked his head to the side as if listening for something.

Dorothy thought she heard sirens.

A small crowd was gathering at the end of the block.

"Come on," Roger said, grabbing her uninjured hand and pulling her out of the car. He proceeded to walk quickly to the scene of the accident. This, for Dorothy, constituted a light jog, and while she knew her body could more than handle it, the slight burning in her lungs was enough to distract her form her surroundings. She nearly ran headlong in to some poor old woman with a walker.

Roger just pushed through the people, making sure to keep Dorothy in his sights, and came to stand beside the flaming car that was drawing the crowd. Then, Roger being Roger, he had to make sure that everyone who might possibly be in danger was as far away from the burning wreckage as possible. The door to the house nearest the wreck was standing ajar, and the loud wailing of a frightened child could be heard. Naturally, Roger rushed to the sound. Dorothy was right behind him.

What they found was rather mystifying. There was a priest, youngish but beginning to grey at the temples. He appeared to be exorcising or praying (Roger wasn't sure which) for a young girl, who was clinging a very frightened woman. The mother and child were huddled on the couch, the priest kneeling before them.

Something about this scene struck Dorothy as rather peculiar, and a deep, rolling fear settled itself in her stomach. Suddenly dizzy, she clutched at the doorframe, the small dingy living room spinning around her.

A second or two, no more, and it had passed.

Now she was drawn to this little girl. There was something similar about the two of them. She could feel it in her chest, the way it constricted at the sight of this small child, as if in sympathy.

Or empathy.

She made a dash for the darkened hallway behind the couch, ignoring Roger's shouts, the screaming mother, the wailing child and the chanting clergyman. The last door down on the right belonged to a little girl and Dorothy though it as good a place as any to look for the now-hated object she prayed she wouldn't find.

But there it was, lying calmly on the bedside table, next to a lamp fashioned out of a toy carousel, as if it meant for her to find it. She could feel the little white hawk grinning cheekily at her from its background of black stone.

With shaking hands she picked it up. It blazed against her palm, growing warmer, until it was all Dorothy could do not to drop it.

There was an unfamiliar ache in her chest, and a burning wetness on her cheeks as she carried the stone back to the living room to show Roger.

* * *

I figured I should make this chapter good and long since it took me so damn long to get it out. Sorry folks, I just can't make myself work on anything. Hope you enjoyed this installment, and maybe it won't be too long 'til the next chapter.

But don't count on it…


	4. Chapter Four

**Styx and Stones: Chapter Four**

* * *

The cup of tea, handed to her by the young priest, was cooling in Dorothy's hands by the time they had managed to discern most of little Brigit's mumbling sentences. Roger stood by the window, looking out into the grayness that had once again taken over the city. His brows were drawn down in deep thought, his arms crossed. He struck an imposing figure, silhouetted so in the dim light filtered through the thick clouds.

Dorothy took a sip of her tea to cover up the sudden feeling of unease that had crept up her limbs at the sight of him. Something in him struck a chord in her, just as the old deaf man had. Some distant human Memory was flowing back to her, and the image of Roger was like a match to dry kindling. Suddenly her coat felt just a little too warm, but Dorothy was loath to remove it. The weight of it on her shoulders seemed to stave off the feelings that only grew every time Brigit spoke.

Brigit hiccupped.

Mrs. McFearson, still holding tightly to her little girl, shook her head. It was not a shake of disbelief, but a shake of permission denied. She refused to even acknowledge such dark, ancient things existed in her world of pious obedience and devotion.

"No," she said simply, still shaking her head. "No. It can't happen. He won't let it, I know He won't."

"Faith is an admirable quality," Roger said gently, moving his gaze to rest on the middle-aged woman and her daughter. "But every god abandoned this city a long time ago."

"Don't you dare say such things!" Mrs. McFearson hissed, her voice slipping through clenched teeth. She pressed Brigit's head into her shoulder, covering both of her daughter's ears. "Your Gordon Rosewater isn't any more of a savior than you are, sir!" she continued angrily. "Rosewater doesn't care what happens outside of the domes! The only thing we have out here is the Good Lord, and all your wealth and good breeding and expensive suits and pretty little friends," here she jutted her chin sharply at Dorothy, "won't save you from the wrath of the Almighty!"

"First of all," Roger retorted, stepping away from the window, "I live _outside_ the domes! Secondly, I like Gordon Rosewater about as much as anyone in this city, which isn't a hell of a lot! And thirdly, my relationship with my pretty little friend is none of your business!"

His face scrunched in the most adorable way when he was angry.

Dorothy quickly gulped down the rest of her tea.

"Get out of my house, you unbeliever!" Mrs. McFearson screeched suddenly. The priest, chanting softly until this moment, let out a little yelp and jumped away from the couch.

Startled, Dorothy jumped to her feet, dropping the now-empty teacup onto the top of the coffee table, where it shattered.

Brigit began to cry again.

"Get out, you heathen!" Mrs. McFearson repeated, struggling to her feet with the child in her arms. "Get out, and take your little harlot with you!"

And just like that Dorothy wanted to hit something - namely, Mrs. McFearson. Instead, she turned and strode quickly out into the weak afternoon light. The fumes from the burning cars still choked the air - the fire had been put out only minutes ago. Roger stormed after her, slamming the front door on his way out.

Roger continued to storm, all the way back to the car, and Dorothy had to jog to keep up. He opened the passenger door for her but refused to look her in the eye. She flinched when he slammed the car door shut. Then he stormed around to the driver's side, jerked open the door, and slammed it shut when he was situated. He drove faster than was necessary, and refused to meet Dorothy's gaze, even in the reflection of the rear-view mirror.

Dorothy stared at her hands, folded primly in her lap. Words and all the things that came with them -the pauses, the insinuations, and the double entendres - had never before evoked emotion in her. Suddenly, a great many things became clear to her, in light of how important a tool the mastery of language was for a human. Suddenly Roger's choice of employment seemed much more difficult. Suddenly, she was glad she didn't have the use of her voice, for fear any of her newly found inflections might put forth the wrong message.

At the red light on Park and Fifth, Roger pulled Dorothy's stone out of his pocket. She'd made such a sight standing in the rain that he had forgotten to give it back to her. It was warm in his palm, and the very sight of it made him feel slightly ill.

Dorothy held out her hand and made a face that clearly said, "Well? Give it here."

Roger was more than happy to oblige her.

Dorothy spent a few moments studying it. The surface was still black as coal. The longhaired mermaid was still white as snow.

She pulled Brigit's stone out of her own pocket, set them side by side in her hands, and looked at them together. They were the same size, the same shape, and the same color. The only difference was that one bore a mermaid and the other a hawk. Even then, the pictures had a similarity of livelihood. There was something that made the mermaid smile and brought out the glimmer in the tilted eyes of the hawk.

So Brigit could not see and Dorothy could not speak: not a clear lead to what their mysterious woman was up to, but certainly more than they had had an hour ago.

The car horn blared as a teenaged boy ran into the street chasing a basketball. Roger, ever a man of many words, felt it necessary to roll down the window and shout, "What are you, deaf!" at the uppity youth.

Blind, deaf, and dumb…

Dorothy gestured wildly at Roger as the possibilities began to fly through her mind. He just glanced at her, shooting her a look that clearly indicated she was crazy. She mimed drinking from a glass, and could barely contain her frustration when Roger continued to eye her warily. Finally, she wrenched open the glove box, ignoring Roger's cry of "Careful!" and rummaged around for a pen. She managed to lay hands on a black sharpie, and scribbled the word 'bar' on her palm.

"What about it?" he asked skeptically, turning left toward home.

'Go there!' she wrote on the back of her hand, complete with exclamation mark and underline.

He snatched the pen away from her and threw it in the backseat.

"Stop that," he admonished. "Norman'll kill me if he thinks I've been letting you mark all over yourself."

They were still heading home. Dorothy waved her palm across his eyes, and he swore.

"Fine! What the hell's at the bar?" he asked, finally acquiescing and turning the car around.

Dorothy, in quick succession, covered first her mouth, then her eyes then her ears.

Roger blinked at her.

When they pulled up to the curb beside the bar, Dorothy was out of the car before Roger had put it in park. She rushed into the dingy little building, coat flying behind her, ignoring Roger's pleas to wait. She found the old man just rising from his seat, pulling a cane out from under the bar where he had laid it earlier that afternoon.

"What brings you back, Red?" he said, his toothy smile a pale blotch on his dark face.

Dorothy pulled both the stones out of her pocket, one in each palm, and offered them to the man. He took the mermaid from Dorothy, turning it over in his fingers.

"Pretty little stone you got here," he murmured, "I got one a lot like it. Last trip I took before I lost my hearing. Lemme see if I can find it…" He began to rummage in the pockets of his coat, pulling out all manner of things and laying them on the bar. Roger entered then, coming to stand beside Dorothy. She held up a hand to silence his questions.

"Ah!" the older man exclaimed, "Here we go!" and he laid a black stone in her hand. The emblem of a long-eared hare stared mischievously up at her, and Dorothy handed it to Roger.

He took one look at it, and swore. Then he offered his hand to the old man, now gathering his things from the bar. "I'm Roger Smith," he said, then gestured to the tiny red-head beside him, adding, "and this is Dorothy."

"James Isaac," the old man proffered, taking Roger's hand and shaking it vigorously.

"Do you think you have some time to talk with us, Mr. Isaac?" Roger asked. "We were just about to go for dinner, if you'd like to join us."

Mr. Isaac chuckled, and winked at Dorothy. "No, no," he said, waving them away. "I don't think an old man like me has any place at the dinner table with a fancy young couple like you."

Roger began to tell him that he and Dorothy were as far from a couple as any two people could be short of not knowing each other, but Mr. Isaac plowed on. "No, I'd best be getting back to my granddaughter. She's got a baby now, herself… Needs my help around the house, these days."

Dorothy smiled understandingly, and offered him the stone. He closed her hand around it and said, "You just keep that, Red. You got yourself such a nice little collection going, and I don't need it all that bad."

* * *

Roger elected to return home for dinner. He'd thought an outing to a restaurant might be an enjoyable experience for Dorothy, but his fuse had been going all day, and it was running short. All people outside of his household grated on his nerves, and generally made him want to beat something with a stick.

The rain had returned with a vengeance on the drive home in the form of thick, icy sheets that poured out of the gray sky onto the dirty city, doing nothing to alleviate the brown, broken look of things.

Dinner was a quiet affair, involving beef stroganoff, Dorothy's newly discovered distaste for mushrooms, and the clinking of silverware.

When the dishes had been cleared away and the rain was still falling from the sky, Roger retired from to his room with little more than a gruff "Goodnight."

Dorothy helped Norman clean the kitchen, took the cup of warm milk and honey he offered her –"Just in case you have trouble sleeping"- and went to her room.

The pinching shoes and itchy dress finally came off, to be left in an unfolded heap on the floor. Her nightdress was soft and cool, and the bare floor was cold against her feet, so crawling into bed was no small comfort. It was cold as well, but warmed quickly when she snuggled down under the thick comforter, pressing her cheek to the pillow as she rolled about in attempt to find an agreeable position. After a few minutes she settled on her left side, one hand under her pillow, the other curled beneath her chin.

Drifting off to sleep was another matter entirely. The past day's event played over and over in her mind, riddled with unanswered questions and new ideas, all leaping through her head in a very unsleepy manner.

It was late, when she finally drifted off. Roger was still awake, pacing in his bedroom.

Two people that they knew of; one quite young, and the other very old already shared Dorothy's experience. This… thing, whatever it was, had been out and about for at least fifty years, if Mr. Isaac's testimonies had been truthful

_When did I become a damn detective?_ Roger couldn't help asking himself as he lay down in bed for the third time that night, determined that he would sleep.

* * *

Early that morning, on his walk home from a long, taxing night, Dan Dastun stumbled upon an old woman sheltering herself beside the steps of a run-down apartment building.

"Some money?" she murmured, reaching out to him. "Just a little, or some food. Something for my strength."

He had no money, but he did have the ends of a half-eaten roast beef sandwich, which he willingly handed over, saying, "Take it, lady. Get yourself inside. It's too nasty out here for someone your age."

She just smiled wildly at him, and bit into the sandwich.

As he was walking away she called him back.

"Take this," she said, reaching out to him. "Take it, as thanks for the food. I make 'em in my spare time, sell 'em for a little money."

Fully expecting to receive a folded paper bird or a tin cut-out, he was much surprised when she dropped a small painted stone in his open palm. It was a little round thing, white as bone, with a tiny bull inked onto it's smooth surface in deepest black. He was too tired to fully appreciate the precision such a small, intricate drawing must have taken, so he pocketed it and went on his way, fully intending to crawl into his warm but lonely bed, sleep until mid afternoon, then eat himself silly on steak and shrimp. The restaurant down the block had a special on the meal if you made it before five o'clock.

The first half of his plan went well. He slept soundly, and awoke at half past two, discovering that he had just enough strength to open his eyes.

He could barely roll over in bed.

Something was _very_ wrong.

* * *

AN: It's been too damn long. Don't give up hope, folks! I am alive, and I am working on this... kinda...


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